


We Are Golden

by renquise



Category: Motorcity
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 03:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/461800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renquise/pseuds/renquise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where Mike smooches everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Are Golden

1.

Mutt usually has more than enough leg space even for Chuck, which is nice, because he can stretch his legs out while being utterly and completely petrified. One of Mutt’s less terrifying features, and one that Chuck definitely appreciates.

But right now, there definitely isn’t enough space, because Mike is right there, straddling Chuck’s lap, and he’s really, really close. Like. Really close. Close enough that Chuck can feel the warmth of the line of Mike’s legs along the outside of his own.

“Uh,” Chuck says, in a typically masterful display of quick wit.

“Hey,” Mike says, grinning at him, his face highlighted by distant lights.

Chuck has his hands curled up around his chest and he must look like some sort of weirdo chipmunk, but he has no idea where to put his hands right now. He can feel his heart going a million miles an hour, which is pretty appropriate, considering they were going approximately a million and thirteen miles an hour just a little while ago, before Mike had the brilliant idea of screeching to a halt as soon as they were safely inside Motorcity perimeters and clambering over the gearstick into Chuck's lap, nearly kneeing Chuck in all sorts of sensitive areas along the way. Because Mike is apparently not satisfied with scaring Chuck completely shitless, but is apparently developing all-new, cutting-edge methods for driving Chuck utterly bonkers. Mike is dedicated that way.

Which is all to say that the chipmunk thing is so that he doesn’t put his hands on Mike’s (really nice) thighs or around Mike’s waist.

Mike’s shirt is riding up a bit and there’s this sliver of skin that’s peeking above the waistband of his jeans, and Chuck keeps looking at it. Maybe he can try looking at the dashboard. Yeah. The dashboard is a good option. That sure is the dashboard.

"Man, I can't believe you actually got us out of there," Mike says, grinning like a crazy person.

Algorithms! Okay, algorithms he can concentrate on and hopefully not say something about Mike’s thighs. "Uh, yeah, it was just a simple re-routing of the--"

And that’s when Mike kisses him, and it's really, really nice.

He must be looking even more alarmed than usual, because Mike draws back a bit, looking concerned. “Hey, you okay? I just... is this okay?”

Chuck gapes a bit, because this is Mike, Mike who’s never afraid of anything, looking tentative and a bit unsure.

He doesn’t like seeing that look on Mike’s face, so he stops doing the chipmunk hands and places his hands on Mike’s thighs. (And oh my god, his thumbs are touching the inseam of Mike’s jeans, and he can feel the muscles of Mike's legs shifting underneath.)

Mike smiles like the sun coming out, the kind that sneaks through the cracks of Deluxe above when the angle is right, and Chuck has to lean in to kiss him again.

Mike's mouth is warm and wet, his fingers resting lightly on the side of his neck. Chuck can't help but let his hands wander-- he's always had twitchy hands, and now, he's fairly sure that resting his hands on that strip of bare skin at Mike's waist is pretty much the best idea ever, especially when Mike arches into his touch, making a noise into his mouth.

“This is such a bad idea. One of us is totally going to set off the ejector seat at some point, I hope you know that,” Chuck says, cradling Mike’s hips in his hands.

Mike looks briefly embarrassed. “The whole getting it on in Mutt thing seemed like a much better idea before actually trying it,” he mutters, which is a good point, but Chuck can’t consider it much because his brain has just shorted out at the fact that this isn’t just an impulse thing, that Mike’s thought about this.

"Not to mention the lasers that just got added," Chuck adds. “I’m not even sure where the switch for those is.”

Mike huffs out a laugh. “Look, just this once, don’t worry, okay? We’ll sort something out.”

Chuck garbles out something like agreement and catches Mike’s lips again, because he can’t even deal right now. There's that swoopy feeling in his belly, like going way too fast over a particularly ridiculous jump (only with a lot less screaming and general terror).

Every so often, Chuck realizes that he would go anywhere with this guy, and the realization never gets any less frightening.

He likes to think that he's always had a pretty well-developed self-preservation instinct, even before he ended up in Motorcity thinking, oh my god, what did I just do, did I deactivate the locator well enough, I don't even know anyone here, all too aware that he was just a weedy eleven-year-old trying his best not to get noticed by anyone. His sense of self-preservation is still (more or less) intact, he thinks-- it's just that Mike has this way of making you want to be better, to do things you wouldn't usually do.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re amazing, dude--” Mike says between breaths. He has this soft look on his face, and he leans into Chuck, brushing his bangs back and cupping his face to kiss him.

And that's when Mike sets off the new experimental airbags.

"Whoops."

Mike whacks his head on the window and Chuck’s pretty sure he pulls something in his leg while they're trying to shut them off, but yeah. Worth it.

 

2.

Dutch vaguely registers the makeshift door to his studio creaking open and Roth chirruping hello, but he's almost done with the piece he's working on, so he doesn't pay it much mind. If it's something really urgent-- that doesn't involve laser beams-- whoever's there will be sure to tell him.

He's not sure how long it takes to finish fiddling, trying to find that balance between not enough and overworked, but when he puts his mask up at last, there's someone hooking their chin over his shoulder and passing their hands around his waist. Too tall to be Julie or Texas, too composed to be Texas or Chuck, and that leaves one person.

"Hey, Mike. Sorry, man, hope I didn't keep you waiting too long," Dutch says, leaning back against Mike's chest. Mike knows that they all need their alone time, but he sometimes comes to Dutch, checking out the studio and Dutch's latest projects.

"Man, it's totally okay! It's always really cool to see you do your thing," Mike says, giving Dutch a quick squeeze. "It's looking awesome."

Dutch opens his mouth to say that there's still way more to do and things he wants to fix, but decides to take the compliment as is, because yeah, it is going well. "Thanks," he says simply, covering Mike's hands with his own.

"Whoa, your hands are cold. How long have you been at it?" Mike takes his hands and rubs them between his warm palms.

Dutch shrugs. It’s easy to lose track of time down here, the days bleeding into the nights with nothing to distinguish them. "Not that long? Doesn't feel like it, anyways."

"Do you have time for a break?" Mike says, tucking himself closer to Dutch. It's just a simple question, easy and casual, but it sends a shiver up Dutch's spine.

Even if he didn't have time, he's pretty sure that Mike's broad hands on his hips would be a pretty darn compelling argument.

He twists around in Mike's arms to face him. Mike's grinning at him, kind of tired-looking (though probably no more than usual), familiar and welcome in a way that makes Dutch's chest warm. "Yeah. Yeah, I've got time."

Mike has to come up on his toes a bit to reach, but kissing is still really, really awesome. Mike's blunt fingers settle on the line of Dutch's jaw when Dutch wraps his arms around him, resting a hand in the small of Mike's back.

Roth chirrups questioningly right next to his ear, and Dutch jumps. "Whoa! Hey buddy, do you want to go hang out with Chuck for a bit? We'll be there soon, don't worry." Dutch feels kind of guilty for ditching him, but Dutch is pretty darn sure that he doesn't have any coding for understanding weirdo teenage human sexuality. Mike frees a hand to give Roth a fist-bump.

"Hey, come on," Mike says, tugging him over to the crappy mattress they'd gotten Dutch a few months ago for the days where Dutch can't be bothered to come home to sleep after working. (Mutt is hilariously unsuited to moving furniture, they'd found out, especially when you try strapping a mattress to the roof and going for Mike’s version of a leisurely drive.)

Mike falls back onto the mattress, tugging off his boots, his jacket, and then reaching up for Dutch. “Come on, man, take a load off. Have you even eaten anything today?”

Dutch can’t help but laugh at that, because, yeah, only Mike would be asking questions like that while also sliding his hands up the back of Dutch’s t-shirt.

“Don’t worry about me, I’m doing just fine.”

“Oh god, did Jacob foist his granola bars off on you? Please tell me it wasn’t the granola bars,” Mike says, mock-horrified. (Or maybe just horrified. Jacob’s new granola bars are-- well, they’re definitely nothing like else Dutch has ever eaten before.)

"No, it wasn't the granola bars," Dutch says, and leans in to kiss Mike. Mike hums into the kiss, his hands spread over Dutch's back.

It's just-- really nice. Slow and easy with Mike's slick tongue inside his mouth, Mike's hips rolling up to meet his when he puts his hands down the back of Mike's pants. It's always a bit chilly down in Motorcity when it's not the summer -- nothing like the constantly calibrated mildness in Deluxe he can remember from when he was a kid-- but he wouldn't have it any other way, especially not when there's Mike's warm skin under his hands.

(None of them are old enough to remember natural weather, but the older folk down in Motorcity talk about the harshness of winters fading into green spring, and the way rain would break over Detroit on summer days, the rumble of thunder over the lake cutting through the warm air. Dutch thinks he would like that. He doesn't do landscapes much, but he can imagine the glow of neon reflecting off puddles and refracting through the falling drops.)

Mike’s palms are big and callused, his fingers trailing up the bumps of Dutch’s spine and cupping the back of Dutch’s neck when Dutch leans down to suck a mark into Mike’s neck, right at his pulse. Mike shivers all over, his eyes closing and his head dropping back to expose the lean curve of his neck, which Dutch takes as an invitation of the best kind.

Yeah, Motorcity is about living fast, but sometimes it might also be about living slow, about the mellow sweetness of moments pulled out like taffy; about the tender skin below Mike's ear and the low, pleased hum vibrating in his chest. 

Mike tugs him back up for a kiss, their lips sliding together messily, but Dutch finds himself yawning into the kiss. Dutch can feel Mike's lips quirking up.

“Whoa, sorry, guess I’m more tired than I thought,” Dutch says, ducking his head. 

“Ha, mission accomplished, then,” Mike says, grinning. “Come on, I could do with a nap myself.” Mike reaches over him to snag the blanket, taking Dutch's arm and slinging it over his waist.

Dutch is pretty much always the big spoon (except with Texas, who is terrible at spooning and insists that he is the biggest spoon), so he tucks himself around Mike, pressing a kiss to the back of Mike's neck.

When he sleeps, he dreams of rain.

 

3.

 

It had been a close call--almost too close, if they hadn't done similar things many times over. It just went a little more wrong than usual, this time.

But they managed to limp back to the garage, still whole, so it all turned out okay, in the end. They had to pop Mike's shoulder back in before going, Julie guiding Texas's hands through it and hoping like hell that she got it right. Predictably, Mike had pronounced himself fine to drive with his makeshift sling, even if he had to ask Chuck to use the gearstick for him. Julie was lucky, relatively speaking, with only a burn on her arm, a memento from a too-close shave with one of her dad's robots when Mike had tumbled off the end of the freeway.

They're both riding high on adrenaline-- Mike's hand is as steady as ever as helps her he wraps gauze around her arm, but she can feel him practically vibrating, his foot jiggling where it rests on the floor. (She should find some more gauze the next time she goes back up, because they're running kind of low.) He pulls away, saying, "Okay, you're set, Jules. I'll just go and check up on everyone before I crash, huh?"

She catches his wrist as he stands up. "Look, let me do your back first, okay? You've got to ice that shoulder, too."

"Don't worry, I'm fine. Maybe I'll even take Mutt out for a run or something!" On anyone else, it might be the pain meds making them punchy, but this is all Mike, running at full blast on whatever fumes he has left.

Julie rolls her eyes and pulls Mike down by the neck of his shirt, kissing him hard. He goes rigid for a second, and then melts against her mouth, all the fight flowing out of him. She bites at his lower lip when she pulls back, not hard, but enough to get his attention. Mike's pupils are dark, his breath still coming fast. It's amazing, the way he thrives on this, and Julie sometimes wonders how Deluxe managed to keep him for so long.

"We're all okay, Mike. In fact, I'm pretty sure that you're the one that's most beat up," she says, not adding 'as usual.' “Relax, fearless leader. Let me take care of you, okay?”

He licks his lips and then slumps down on the couch, giving her a rueful salute. "Aye, aye."

At her urging, he lifts up his arm to let her slip his shirt off, letting it hang around his sling. Julie's careful around his shoulder, but she can still see him wince when he moves it. "We should get that looked at tomorrow," she says, pressing her fingers to the joint. That last tumble had left bruises and cuts, too, more than the usual scattering that was standard, these days.

"The doc's pretty busy these days, what with that cold going around," Mike says lifting his shoulder as if to shrug, and thinking better of it.

Julie doesn't deny it; the doctor living nearby is a formidable woman, but there's only so much you can do when you're the only medical personnel for miles.

"Hold still, okay?" Julie's still no great hand at anything beyond first aid, but she's been learning a lot since coming to Motorcity. She wraps Mike's sprained shoulder with an ice-pack and sets a few of the worse cuts on his back with precious derma-knit bandages. If she doesn't manage to get more soon, they'll have to go back to old-fashioned stitches. Mike sighs when the ice pack touches his shoulder, the set of his shoulders relaxing minutely.

"Anywhere else? " she asks, looking him over critically.

"Naw, I'm good!" He starts sitting up again, but she tugs him down again before he can leave.

She bears Mike down on the orange crocheted afghan spread on the couch (a thank-you gift, or perhaps payment of some sort for a favor in Motorcity's complicated system of favours and exchanges, from one of the little old ladies a few doors down with a mean hand for crochet and a radical revolutionary bent). Mike lets a grunt slip out when he settles against the bruises on his back.

"Sorry! Sorry, are you okay?" Way to go, Julie.

"Don't worry, I'm just fine," he says, wrapping his good arm around her.

Julie settles between his spread legs, careful of his shoulder. For a second, she tucks her face into the crook of Mike's neck and breathes, trying to slow down.

“Hey, Jules,” Mike murmurs into her hair.

"Hm?" she says, crossing her arms on his chest and propping her chin on them.

He opens his mouth to say something, but closes it again. "Nothing. Just saying hi," he says at last, smiling ruefully.

When she kisses him, it's not frantic, but there's something leashed in the things they're not saying that makes her feel jittery. There's still the thrill and the rumble of the engine coursing through her skin, and it all says yes, yes, yes, sure as the satisfying slide of shifting up a gear.

His arm is tight around her back, keeping her close. Julie wraps her hand around the wrist of his bad arm, just to remind him not to use it, though he could break out of her grasp anytime he wants, really. Mike trusts so much and so hard that it almost hurts, sometimes.

"You're the best, Jules," Mike says, smiling at her, something wild in the set of his mouth.

"I bet you say that to all the Burners."

"Well, yeah, but it doesn't make it any less true."

She kisses him again and hangs on tightly.

 

4.

Texas isn't entirely sure how he went from being elbow-deep in Mutt's engine to having his hands on Mike's butt and his tongue in Mike's mouth, but he's not complaining. It must have been something like Mike saying, "Hey, Texas, wanna make out?", and Texas saying, "Aw yeah, let's do this thing!" because making out is awesome. He wouldn't want to deny anyone a piece of Texas's sweet make-out moves.

Not that Mike doesn't have pretty good moves, too-- there's some serious tongue-slinging going on. He is a worthy rival in makeout martial arts. Tonsil judo. Mouth muay thai.

Hwaaayah.

Mike pulls away, gasping, to press his mouth to Texas's neck .(Texas can understand the impulse. They are pretty manly neck muscles.) With some expert maneuvering,Texas backs Mike up to the workbench and Mike slings a leg up around Texas's hip, pulling him in, and oh hey, there's definitely some boner action going on. Awesome boner action. Texas pauses for a second to appreciate this.

"Hey, don't leave me hanging here," Mike says, smirking at him, and oh, it is ON.

Texas smooches Mike like you would not believe. Mike braces an arm on the table, sending a few wrenches toppling to the floor in a loud clang. Mike's got a smear of grease along the line of his jaw, his hair is totally disheveled, his tank top is all rucked up around his armpits, and he looks really, really good.

“Come on, dude, you can do better than that!” Mike says, squeezing Texas’s waist and doing this wiggly thing with his spine. Texas is kind of scandalized that the wiggly thing makes Mike’s abs look almost as good as his own.

“Okay, but don’t blame me if you can’t take Texas’s RED-HOT TENDER LOVEMAKING!” He poses to emphasize this, just in case, so that Mike knows what he’s getting into. And also to show off his amazing pecs.

Mike laughs (He’s got this kind of doofy giggle which, again, makes his abs look kind of awesome. Texas is almost jealous.) and says, “Come on, let’s go, love machine.”

Texas proceeds to love Mike REALLY TENDERLY. Mike apparently makes really good noises when you love him REALLY TENDERLY.

It is pretty awesome.

(There are also high-fives.)

(Really great high-fives.)


End file.
